


O Captain, my Captain

by magpie_fngrl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Joggers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: Harry Potter shows up to Quidditch practice looking obscene in Muggle clothing. Draco is most displeased.





	O Captain, my Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first ever [Cocks and Joggers Mini Fest](https://cocksandjoggers.tumblr.com/), the brainchild of the Drarry discord.  
> My heartfelt thanks to [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/pseuds/chibaken) for offering to beta and to [unadulteratedstorycollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/pseuds/unadulteratedstorycollector) for making this fest happen and bringing such joy in our lives!

It was offensive; really, it was. Potter had no business showing up to Quidditch practice in this frankly _obscene_ garment. Didn’t Madam Hooch notice, and if she did, what was she doing, allowing it on the pitch?

Draco fumed as he failed to score yet another goal. His performance had suffered throughout practice, which meant that Potter, Captain of the Eighth Year team, had to take him aside halfway through and have a word with him on the side of the pitch.

Which meant that Draco had to suffer the ignominy of viewing that appalling item of clothing from closer than he’d like.

‘What’s wrong, Malfoy?’ Potter asked, hands on hips. The grey, loose, shapeless and _tasteless_ trouser-things hung low on said hips, revealing a sliver of sweaty skin. A bulge at the front hinted at—

Draco raised his eyes to the heavens, praying for blindness. He clenched his fists, trying to stop his hands from doing something stupid like punching Potter or removing the offending garment. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me,’ he hissed. ‘Not my fault if you can’t run a training session.’

‘Is that what this is about? Again?’ Potter glared at him. The wind blew his hair around and flapped the loose fabric around Potter’s thighs.

Draco swallowed and looked instead at the pitch and the other players lounging on the sunlit grass, brooms by their side, waiting for practice to begin again. ‘It’s not about the captaincy.’ Not _entirely_. ‘I simply disagree with every decision you make and think that you should resign.’ _And also you should go put on some proper clothes._

‘So, in other words,’ Potter said slowly, ‘it _is_ about the captaincy.’

‘Having experience as a captain of a team that won the Quidditch Cup doesn’t mean you’re good at it.’

‘I assumed that was exactly what it meant.’ Potter crossed his arms over his chest.

‘Well, you assumed _wrong_.’ Draco didn’t know why he was making such a fuss. It wasn’t like he expected Professor Sinistra, Head of Year Eight, to make a former Death Eater the captain of the team. All he knew was that he was furious; his blood rushed hot, his palms were sweaty, his breathing came ragged and shallow, and his Quidditch gear — his _proper_ , wizarding Quidditch gear — was very tight around his groin for no reasons he could fathom.

‘Like it or not, I’m the captain and unless you want to be kicked off the team, you’ll _do as you’re told_ ,’ Potter said.

Potter’s words had a curious effect on Draco, leaving his brain dizzy and full of … images. His mind scrambled for something to say — anything. ‘When we lose the friendly match against Beauxbatons on Sunday, you’ll be sorry you didn’t listen to me.’ He turned on his heel and left, hearing behind him only a confused ‘Listen about what?’

Draco walked to his broom, mounted it and took to the air, hoping it’d calm his feverish skin. Putting some distance between himself and Potter’s ridiculous attire cleared his mind. His shoulders relaxed and he unclenched his fists, certain that it was just shock at the Muggle clothing that had scrambled his thought processes. Nothing more. Now that he was prepared, now that he’d had time to adjust to the visual of Potter in those … _things_ , he wasn’t going to let them distract him again. Leaning forward on his broom, he flew to the team waiting assembled on the grass, and landed softly beside Thomas.

‘Right, team!’ Harry said, looking at his players. ‘The game is in six days and it’s not going to be a walk in the park. Half of these Frogs are semi-pros, training with the Junior League already. Our task will be _hard_.’

Draco’s self-control was slipping again, as he struggled to keep his eyes averted from the way Potter’s cock swung along with his gestures while he was making his passionate speech.

‘We need to go _hard_ , we need to go _fast_... ‘

Draco’s trousers felt even tighter. How was that possible? He’d bought these bloody bottoms only a month ago.

‘... we need to _penetrate_ their defense…’

 _Oh dear Merlin_.

‘... we need to _pummel_ them…’

Draco stopped listening around that point. His brain disengaged entirely, lost in the contour of Potter’s cock in his grey trouser-things, the soft swell under the thin material. He was distracted throughout the rest of the training session and scored no goals, which earned him scowls from his team players.

Draco returned to his dorm _furious._

 

*

 

That night in bed, Draco berated himself for his lack of control. Surely, Muggle clothing couldn’t have such an effect on him. Unless—

A thought entered his mind and Draco exhaled with relief: the trousers had been _bewitched_ , perhaps by Potter himself, to distract Draco and give Potter a reason to kick him off the team. Of course! So what if Draco had been top scorer in every match they’d played so far, excelling at the position he’d been assigned even beyond his own hopes? Potter didn’t want Death Eaters on his team. Draco had noticed Potter glancing at him and then away, repeatedly. He’d seen how Potter never met his eyes after playing a match, when Draco, sweaty and flushed with happiness, celebrated their victory with the others.

He drew his curtains aside. ‘Blaise!’

He had to call his name a few times before Blaise pulled open his own curtains and gave him a murderous look. ‘You’d better have a bloody good reason for waking me up.’

‘It’s about Potter.’

Blaise’s head flopped on the pillow and he whispered something that sounded like _not again._ He made to shut his curtains, but Draco stopped him. ‘I need you to come to training with me tomorrow.’

‘Why? What did Potter do _now_?’

‘He’s bewitching me,’ Draco said. ‘Wants to kick me off the team. I need moral support.’ No one in their right mind would ever use the word _moral_ in conjunction with Blaise, but Draco hoped it’d startle him into agreeing to help him.

Blaise sighed. ‘You could have told me this in the morning, you dick. Now go to sleep and stop dreaming of Potter.’

‘Me? Dreaming of—?’ Draco spluttered, but Blaise had shut his curtains.

 

*

 

The next day, Draco and Blaise trudged down the hill towards the pitch together. Draco hoped Potter would be wearing the Muggle trousers, if for no other reason than to show an unconvinced Blaise what Draco had to deal with. It was another bright day, crisp and windy and full of the smell of snow in the mountains. Draco’s heart beat fast in the hopes he’d uncover Potter’s bewitchment. Perhaps, if he reported Potter, Draco could become the captain after all.

They arrived early and stood on the side of the pitch, waiting for the Gryffindors to finish their session. A few minutes later, Potter arrived. He nodded at Draco and Blaise and stood well away from them with his Firebolt leaning on the bleachers. He was wearing the same article of clothing as yesterday and Draco felt the same physical symptoms of the enchantment: sweaty palms, increased heart rate, shortness of breath. His body fought against the spell by focusing on the overwhelming desire to divest Potter of those stupid trousers.

‘Do you see?’ he asked Blaise. ‘How am I going to be able to train when I have to look at something so… so…’ As he was pointing at the source of his torment, the Weasley girl landed near Potter, kissed his cheek and started chatting with him. She was wearing the same type of bottoms, grey and soft, one of the legs riding up to her knee, revealing her calf.

Blaise looked towards the two Gryffindors in clear shock, his eyes glazing. ‘This is the work of the devil,’ he whispered. ‘This is Dark stuff indeed.’ He drooled a little and wiped his chin when Weasley bent to pick up her broom.

‘See what I’m dealing with?’ Draco said. ‘This underhand tactic to get rid of me…’

Blaise didn’t seem to be listening. His gaze had followed Weasley into the skies as she dismissed her team. ‘Listen, Draco, can I borrow your broom? Thanks.’

Before Draco could stop him, Blaise had hopped on Draco’s broom and flown straight to Weasley.

Draco sighed. _Magic_. That’s what this was. Gritting his teeth at the sight of Blaise chatting up Weasley in mid-air — though it wasn’t his fault; Blaise had been bewitched, same as him — and ignoring the rest of the team who’d started arriving, Draco marched to the Quidditch broom shed to borrow one of the school’s brooms.

He was determined he’d prove to Potter that a little spell couldn’t push him off the team, but he hadn’t expected that Potter would follow him to the broom closet and test his resolve right there and then.

‘We’re about to start practice and you leave the pitch.’ Potter sounded most unamused. ‘Are you doing this to get back at me? Do you even _want_ to be on the team?’

The broom shed was dim, light pouring from a dirty window high on the wall, illuminating the silhouette of Potter’s irate posture. Draco had had just about enough.

‘I know what you’re doing,’ he snapped. ‘I know that you want me off the team and if you don’t get off my back, I’ll tell the Professors about your little spell.’

‘Did a Bludger hit you in the head?’ Potter asked.

The broom Draco had been holding clattered to the floor as he stalked in front of Potter and jabbed his finger into his chest. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!’ He curled his fingers around the trousers — wow, the fabric was _so_ soft — and scrunched the material in his fists. ‘This! You’ve bewitched me with these!’

Even in the dim light, he could see Potter’s confused look. ‘I bewitched you with my joggers?’

 _Joggers_. That was, apparently, the name of this infernal article of clothing. Clearly under the influence of the spell, Draco kept holding onto the fabric, his fingers running over the velvety softness of their own accord. He didn’t miss the flush on Potter’s cheeks — he was standing too close after all — or the way the bulge at the front of his joggers was starting to swell. Unable to breathe, unable to _think_ , all his blood rushing to his very tight Quidditch bottoms — he’d have to buy a new pair, clearly — Draco spoke in a very raspy voice. ‘All I can think about is taking them off you.’

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Potter sighed, his eyelids fluttering as he took a shallow breath.

‘Yes, _fuck_ ,’ Draco echoed. ‘You’re _fucked_ if you think I won’t tell the Professors about your dirty, _filthy_ attempt to—’ He wasn’t sure why his voice had gone so low, why Potter stepped closer at the mention of filthiness or why Draco found his hands on Potter’s waistband, tugging the elastic. ‘You’re _fucked_ if you think...’

He never finished his sentence, not that he knew where it had been heading anyway. Potter pulled him hard against him, his lips finding Draco’s. Draco fought bravely against the attack by clutching Potter’s arse, shoving his tongue into Potter’s mouth and rubbing his groin against Potter’s hip. Draco had no choice but to yield to the dark magic of the enchantment, and he moaned as he pushed Potter against the wall and ran his hand over Potter’s cock through the soft fabric. Potter let out a desperate, needy grunt and he shoved his hand under the waistband of Draco’s Quidditch gear, his warm fingers leaving a trail of fire on Draco’s skin.

‘We’ve got to go back,’ Potter exhaled, showing no intention of moving. Draco tugged his joggers low and stroked his cock, alternating between kissing Potter messily and staring at Potter’s prick swelling and leaking in his hand. The scents of leather, wood and broom polish mixed with the potent odour of Potter’s arousal, a combination that Draco suspected he would smell from now on in Amortentia. He unzipped his Quidditch bottoms to provide access to Potter and his calloused hand, and gasped when Potter wrapped his finger around Draco's cock. He rutted into Potter’s fist, frantic with desire.

‘They’ll be waiting…’ Potter tried to say again. ‘They might even come to look for us…’

Draco’s arousal soared at the thought that his teammates would see their captain half-naked and flushed, hard and leaking in Draco’s palm. He felt light-headed, his brain empty, his body demanding release. ‘I _want_ them to see,’ he whispered in Potter’s ear. ‘I want them to come and see you fuck me open.’ Potter whimpered, his lips catching Draco’s desperately, and Draco continued between kisses. ‘I want them to come and see their _captain,_ balls-deep inside me, fucking me hard and—’ He gasped, words fleeing as his orgasm spilled over Potter’s hands a moment before Potter came in his palm. He dropped his forehead onto Potter’s shoulder, breathing hard, one hand caressing the velvet smoothness of the joggers.

 

*

The Beauxbatons team looked dazed, as if someone had clubbed them on the head. They faced the smirking Hogwarts Eighth Years with glazed eyes, their gazes darting to the grey joggers that the entire Hogwarts team sported, charmed to be wind and rain resistant. Madam Hooch gave her speech about playing fair and asked the two captains to shake hands. It took a moment for the French captain to draw her eyes from Padma, who had bent to tie her shoelaces, and offer a limp handshake to Potter.

Draco smiled as they took to the air. His captain was a _genius_ , and the plan the two of them had come up with was working like a treat. They had this victory in the pocket of their flimsy, grey joggers.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello at [tumblr](http://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
